faux fathom

A bouncing ball of intimacy ricochets between us. I can smell you on my skin and hear you on dark nights under old elms whispering to me sweet memories. This love remains an unbiased sect of friendship beyond means. How could it be more? Shall we sweet embrace for the sake of it? Yea, sooner or later.

You have been with me full of heavy sighs before. Since we first met, our souls have never left the other. Even crossing eyes, we have known about the clues. I know you, with me, with all your slick talk and pretty blond hair, I still keep my grits. The best part about knowing you is, I got to find myself. Thanks.

Love ain't what you all let others crack up for you. Love is; penny taste, slap around, scrape your face in the dirt, logic. I guess only gay-rods use semicolons. What does a blacklisted writer know about love anyway? No matter. Thank goodness the real writer has found a muse. Even if I hadn't found a muse I'd be able to type. I'll type till they use my words as faded bookmarks in half-read books.

You ask me to follow as you hold out your hand. It is a dark place full of contained energy. My hand feels sweaty as yours is cold and clammy, but I hold on just the same. You push dark curtains out of your way as you lead me through rooms and corridors of red velvet walls and oak inlaid paneling. It smells like cedar and mold and mothballs and dusty wrinkled lace. Your pretty blond hair turns around and I see an attractive face with a straight nose with round nostrils. Your pocked marked complexion makes me narrow at first, but then I find it endearing like my appendectomy scar. I can feel the ridges of your fingertips gently brush my palm.

My tongue rubs the back of my upper front teeth and I can feel my swallows come hard. I circle my shoulders and listen to the rustle of my shirt as I'm pulled into the room. The "BOOM BOOM BOOM" of the bass beat thunders through my loins and I smile as the décor becomes visible.

It is Garden of Eden motif, with a fountain and Corinthian pillars, trees with leaves and giant gold painted plaster statues. Someone hands me a full Pernod in a small glass with a bottle of Evian. Girls with beads adorning their breasts giggle past and the college band on stage thanks us all for being there. I pull my hat down tight and sip my drink, adding splashes of water with jerky, conspicuous gestures. Some wanna-be hippie bumps through me and the crowd with a Red Stripe clutched in his hand and I want one. You whisper to a lackey and a beer comes immediately. I'm double fisting it now with the blare of a band that wants to know me. I can't hear a thing. My ears feel full of butterflies and the flapping is driving me crazy. Excusing myself, I push back through the curtains and over a balcony that leads to the WC. I take a deep smoky breath before I enter the fluorescent, ceramic tile gleam.

When I escape the piss drenched tagged stall hole, I feel the carpet under my shoes and choose a path back to you. Through the curtain I go, past the chrome kitchen and velvet walls and oak paneling.

The bouncer stops me by grabbing hold of my collar.

"What are you doing back there?" He asks. I trip over an amp cord and spin around on my heal.

"Taking a leak yo," I answer, looking through his eyes.

"We can't have people…." I'm walking away now and my Pernod is sitting on the edge of the fountain with my water. I slam the beer in my hand.

When the band takes a set break, the bouncer of grief tells me to come backstage. I shrug him off and force a grimace. Then a smokin' Betty with curly brown hair over her shoulders, wearing a periwinkle shirt with a v-neck lace collar and boomin' breasts, grabs my elbow. I lean into you and ask for help and you brush her away. Your eyes laugh at me.

"See, how was that?", you ask, while we walk down the barren steamy street.
I don't answer, I can just feel you so close and our elbows nudge as we huddle through the mist of two rainy days in spring.

Alone, pushing me into the late hours Oyster bar down the street you rub the small of my back as you brush by me holding the door.

"We'll just sit at the bar." You tell the host pulling the small of my back with you.

We sit down on brushed chrome chairs dudded all up with fancy sandalwood backs. You order us a couple of single-malts and a dozen and a half of assorted oysters. You smile with your Hamma Hamma, Wellfleet grin. I grin back and you squeeze my hand.

I want to say that we are a mosaic, a picture of broken pieces, but your smile makes me can't.